


The Storm Will Bring You to the Other Side

by justkisa



Category: Football RPF, MCFC RPF
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-16
Updated: 2013-05-16
Packaged: 2017-12-12 00:26:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,302
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/804990
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/justkisa/pseuds/justkisa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After their FA cup final defeat, Jack unexpectedly finds himself comforting Nastasic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Storm Will Bring You to the Other Side

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [this prompt](http://footballkink2.livejournal.com/9768.html?thread=4273192) at [footballkink](http://footballkink2.livejournal.com) but mostly for [allthatconfetti](http://allthatconfetti.livejournal.com)

Jack’s never experienced a loss like this. The dressing room is hushed. Everyone’s moving around each other with a stilted kind of carefulness and no one’s looking at anyone else. He usually likes the quiet. He’s not one for a big fuss but he can’t take this horrible, stultifying quiet. 

He doesn’t know what to do now. He should go, shower, wash the game - the loss - away, get dressed. Instead he hovers in the doorway, unable to make himself step forward, unable to make himself walk past his teammates and go to his locker. 

Zaba’s sitting on the bench nearest the door, his head in his hands, still dressed for the game. He hasn’t looked up once since Jack arrived in the dressing room, hasn’t acknowledged any of the people who’ve gone past him and patted his shoulder or touched his head. 

Jack takes a step forward. He reaches out and squeezes Zaba’s shoulder because he can’t do nothing. Zaba doesn’t look up. His jersey’s unpleasantly damp and slightly cool to the touch. He must be uncomfortable, Jack thinks, sitting there, his clammy, sweat-soaked jersey sticking to his skin. “All right, Zaba,” he says. He doesn’t make it a question. He’s not sure if it’s the right thing to say but it’s something _to_ say. He doesn’t get an answer but, then, he wasn’t really expecting one. 

He pats Zaba’s shoulder and takes a step forward and then another one. It’s something to focus on, putting one foot in front of the other, something that isn’t the game, something that isn’t the way Zaba won’t look at anyone. 

When he passes Vinnie, Vinnie pats his back and says, “Next time, Jack.” From someone else it might seem like a pointless platitude, a bit of hollow comfort, but, when Vinnie says it with such implacable certainty, it seems more like a promise. Jack knows enough about Vinnie to know he keeps his promises. 

He turns and looks at Vinnie. Vinnie stares straight back. “Right,” he says, “Next time,” and believes it because Vinnie’s easy to believe in and easier to follow. Vinnie doesn’t say anything else. He nods once and claps Jack’s shoulder. 

He feels better for a moment - lighter - then he sees Nastasic sitting on the bench in front of his locker, well, half in front of his locker and half in front of Jack’s locker. He looks rough. His eyes are red-rimmed and bloodshot but the worst of it is his expression. He looks broken open - totally shattered - and his misery is almost palpable. Jack can count on one hand the number of times he’s seen him smile, seen him anything but placidly calm so, to see him like this, his misery written so obviously across his face, is jarring. 

He doesn’t know what to do. He’d seen Nastasic just after the whistle, his face buried in Micah’s shoulder, but he hadn’t taken much notice of it. He’d been too busy blinking away the burning sting of tears, too busy just trying to stay on his feet. He glances around looking for someone - Micah, anyone - to comfort Nastasic but no one’s even looking their way. 

He could just get his stuff and leave Nastasic there. Maybe, like Zaba, he doesn’t want anyone near him. He thinks, though, of the way he’d clung to Micah on the pitch and, instead, he sits down next to him. He searches for something to say. Finally he tentatively pats Nastasic’s knee and says, “Y’all right, Nasta?” Nastasic takes a low, shuddering breath, like he’s fighting back tears, and doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t even look at Jack. 

Jack inches a bit closer, close enough that his knee nudges into Nastasic’s. “It’s,” he says, without any idea of what to say next, “Nasta--” He pats his knee again. “It’s gonna be all right, yeah?” It doesn’t even sound convincing to his own ears. Nastasic looks at him then and his expression’s crumpling again. Jack’s hard pressed to remember the last time he felt so helpless - so useless. “Hey,” he says, his voice breaking a bit because Nastasic’s misery is scraping at him, tearing him open, “Nasta-- Matty--” He fumbles his arm around Nastasic’s shoulders. “Matty, it’s all right. Don’t-- Don’t--” 

Nastasic turns into him, presses his face against Jack’s shoulder. He doesn’t know what to do. He knows he can’t let go, though, knows he has to do something. He squeezes Nastasic a bit tighter and says, “S’okay, Matty, it’s--it’s--” and he trails off because he doesn’t what it’s going to be, doesn’t know what’s going to happen. So he just holds on and listens to Nastasic breathe, listens to the small, awful, shuddery sounds of him trying not to cry. 

He tentatively rubs his hand over Nastasic’s head, drags his fingers through his hair. Nastasic settles a bit so he does it again. “S’okay,” he says again, “Matty, it’s--” He thinks of Vinnie’s certainty when he’d said, _next time_ , and he knows he can’t muster that kind of certainty but he says it anyway, “Next time, Matty, eh? Next time we’ll show’em.” 

Nastasic doesn’t look up. Jack can feel him breathing against his shoulder, the warm dampness of it is seeping through his jersey. He runs his hand over his head again and squeezes the back of his neck. “Next time.” The more he says it the easier it becomes to believe. 

“Rodwell,” someone says and he’s so caught up with Nastasic that he startles a bit. It’s Kolarov. Edin’s behind him, his hand on Kolarov’s hip and his chin hooked over his shoulder. Nastasic hasn’t moved. He still has his face buried against Jack’s shoulder. Jack starts to move away because, surely, they’re here for Nastasic but Nastasic makes a low, protesting sound and Jack can’t leave, can’t let go, not if Nastasic’s going to make that low, hurting sound again. 

He pushes closer to Nastasic and rubs his hand along his neck, across his back. “Yeah?” he says to Kolarov. 

Kolarov looks at him then he glances toward Nastasic. He stares at Nastasic for a long time then he looks back at Jack and says, “You have him?”

“I,” Jack starts, unsure of the answer, then he says, “Yeah, I-- Yeah, I’ve got him,” because, well, because he supposes that he does. 

Kolarov nods decisively and says, “Good.” He leans in and pats Jack’s shoulder. “Good,” he says again. He reaches over and rests his hand on Nastasic’s head for a second then he turns and walks away. 

Edin lingers for a moment. He smiles. It’s slow and bittersweet and barely a smile. “Yes,” he says, “Good.” He reaches out and ruffles Nastasic’s hair then he turns and follows Kolarov leaving Jack with Nastasic. 

He doesn’t know what to make of all of it but it feels like he’s made a promise. He rests his hand on Nastasic’s back. His breathing’s evened out and his back rises and falls, slow and steady, under Jack’s hand. “Matty?” he asks, low and soft, and Nastasic finally straightens up. 

He doesn’t back away and Jack’s not sure whether to let him go or to hold on. It seems better to hold on so he does. They’re so close he can see variegated shades of color in Nastasic’s eyes and the way his eyelashes are wet and clumped together from crying. “All right,” he asks, his voice hushed. It doesn’t seem right to talk too loud, not now. Nastasic nods. “That’s--that’s go--”

Nastasic cuts him off, “Next time,” he says, each word slow and precise, his voice rough from crying, “You. Me. We will. Next time,” and he sounds as certain as Vinnie had. 

“Yeah,” Jack says, “Next time we’ll--” and he believes it because Nastasic smiles a little and says, “Yes. Yes. We will.”


End file.
